


And the Song Keeps Playing

by wonder_womans_ex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ANGST!!, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Angst!, Break Up, M/M, Song: Piano Man (Billy Joel), and one more time for good measure, cw food mention, it ends well i promise, just thought I'd mention it again, of course he does, sirius leaves, sirius wants to be famous, some pretty dark thoughts in here so be warned, the closest I will ever come to writing a songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29728170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_womans_ex/pseuds/wonder_womans_ex
Summary: A broken man. A bedroom. Two shady bars.A song.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	And the Song Keeps Playing

In June, Remus comes home from work to find a pile of magazines on the coffee table. He glances through them— _People_ , _US_ _Weekly_ , _Star_ , a couple _Vanity_ _Fair_. Something catches on his thumb, and he flips to the one dog-eared page. Across the top of pages 25 and 26, the words _ELEVEN TIPS FOR GETTING INTO FILM ACTING_ are written in golden yellow block letters, surrounded by stars of the same colour—the kind Remus imagines one would find on an actor’s dressing room door. **  
**

He doesn’t think anything of it, however, because that’s when Sirius steps out of the kitchen. They smile when they see each other, and Sirius walks over and kisses him, not even seeming to notice the magazine still in Remus’s hands. 

In July, Sirius buys a new leather jacket. It’s smooth and shiny, not at all like the old worn one with all the patches and pins that Remus gave him for their fourth anniversary. He only ever wears the new one in the apartment—never outside—and Remus finds the receipt for one thousand fifty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents in the wastepaper basket. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s the one who pays most of the rent that month. 

In August, they spend a week at a cute little cabin on a lake, the same as they do every year. It is, as always, as close to perfection as anything will ever be. Remus makes tacos the first three nights and grilled cheese the other four and they feed each other ice cream and drink what Sirius says must be at least twice their weight in lemonade. They sleep outside, under the night sky, and promise they’ll protect each other from bears and take turns pointing out constellations. 

“That’s me, Remus,” Sirius says, gesturing upwards, voice slurred with exhaustion and alcohol. “I’m a star.”

“You really are,” Remus whispers into his hair. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying. “You really, really are.”

In September, they drive out to the countryside and pick apples from an orchard owned by Remus’s second cousin twice removed on his mother’s side. Sirius bites into one on the way home and makes a face of disgust because there’s a worm in the middle. 

Remus says, “Make a wish,” because some people have eyelashes or shooting stars or birthday candles, but _they_ have apples with worms inside. 

It’s the first time in a long time that Sirius doesn’t tell him what it is that he’s wishing for. 

In October, Remus starts writing another book. This one is about a pilot who crashes on a deserted island, and Remus knows nothing about piloting, so he opens the computer to look up _plane_. 

Bile rises in his throat and his world begins to come crashing down around him when Google fills in the rest of the search bar with _tickets to LA_. 

By November, he’s expecting it. He unlocks the door and walks into what feels like emptiness. _He’s gone_ , he thinks, and some part of him desperately hopes it’s true, but it isn’t. Because Sirius is in the bedroom, and his bags are packed, but he hasn’t left yet. 

He looks up when Remus enters, shoes quiet—but not quiet enough—on the carpet. Their eyes meet for a split second before Remus’s gaze flickers away and locks onto the carefully folded piece of paper on his pillow. 

So Sirius had planned to leave without saying goodbye, then.

There’s a _click_ as the last latch on the suitcase closes, and Remus’s eyes close, too. He can’t watch this; he can’t. 

He hears—or, rather, he _feels_ —Sirius step cautiously towards him. In his mind, he sees Sirius lean in to kiss him one last time—indeed, he feels warm breath ghost briefly across his mouth—before thinking better of it and pulling away again. 

“I’m more than this, Moony,” Sirius tells him, but Remus is only half listening. “I can be more than this.” 

Maybe Remus thinks, _I know you can_. Maybe he thinks, _Stay anyway. Please_. But most likely, he thinks, _But why would you want to?_

He waits until he hears the door of the apartment close to cry. He sits in the divot Sirius’s luggage left in the duvet, and he buries his face in his hands. 

It’s only when he has no tears left in him—none at all—that he leans over and turns on the lamp on his bedside table. The letter crinkles when he picks it up. 

_I’m sorry, Remus,_ he reads. _I’m sorry for your sake._

_But I’m not sorry for mine. This is what I want. This is what I’ve always wanted. This is my dream. It has been for a long time—since even before I met you._

_I’m going to Hollywood. I’m going to be famous. I know I can, because acting is all I’ve ever loved, and I’m good at it, too. This is me, Remus—smiling for the camera and making other people believe I’m in love._

_Not that I didn’t love you, because I did. I loved you more than I thought it was possible to love a person. You weren’t everything, not by far, but you were enough._

_I can do this._

_Wish me luck._

The rest of the paper is blank. 

Remus stands up. He walks to the window. He stares out at the street, and he knows that barely an hour ago Sirius was standing on that very curb and hailing a taxi and pretending it was a limousine. 

The silence is unbearable, so he reaches towards the radio. Three stations of nothing but static go by before the accordion music swells and Billy Joel’s voice rings out through the room. 

_“He says, ‘Bill, I believe this is killing me,_

_“As a smile ran away from his face._

_“‘Well, I’m sure that I could be a movie star_

_“If I could get out of this place.”_

The irony—not irony, really, Remus knows, but _coincidence_ doesn’t sound nearly as poetic in his head, not by far—is like a knife to the gut. He thinks, sadly, even though it hurts, about the diamond ring that’s collecting dust in his dresser drawer. 

He loved Sirius for almost nine years, and he’ll love him for a thousand more. 

And for what?

_Wish me luck._


End file.
